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A New Critic Is Born

Mood: Excited over APHRODITE’S BREW print release at the last of this month, and getting my author copies! But no time for Snoopy-dancing. Too much else to do.

I am a bit of a loss for a subject since I can’t recall any funny things that happened at booksignings.But I have a story from this last weekend to share.

After all that snow, we finally got to go up north for our annual Christmas visit with kids and grandkids. Two of the grandkids are my step-son’s daughters, Gabrielle, almost 7, and Elizabeth, almost 5. It’s good to see they are finally settling down with some actual manners, and they’re quite bright. And they zip around their Auntie Pam’s tiny house like bouncing bolts of lightning.

I had brought one of my author copies of APHRODITE for Pam, and just as I pulled it out of my tote, Gabrielle snatched it out of my hand.

“What’s that?”

Considering the slightly racy cover, I took it back. “It’s a book for your Auntie Pam,” I replied. “I wrote it and I wanted her to have a copy.”

That didn’t stop brash Gabrielle. She grabbed it back. “You did? Can I read it?”

I breathed relief as she went right past the cover and started thumbing the pages. “It’s not a children’s book. It’s for Auntie Pam.”

“I’ll give it to her.” Off she dashed like careening lightning again, and handed the book to her auntie. “It’s from Gramma Delle. She wrote it.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Pam. But before she could even see the autograph, Gabrielle grabbed it back.

“I want to read it,” Gabrielle announced. Nothing could dissuade her, and since I knew she wouldn’t get far, or find anything racy, we decided to let her show off her skills.

“‘The eee-aaaaaa-rr-‘ ear?”

“Earl. That’s sort of like a job for a man who has lots of properties.”

With a skeptical look, she continued. “‘Of Vaaaaaaaa-‘”

“Vailmont. That’s the name of his property.”

“That’s a funny name. ” She continued. “‘-sat-in-his-breakfast-‘ he sat in his breakfast?”

“His breakfast room. It’s a place to eat breakfast.”

“Why don’t you just say kitchen?”

“It’s more like a dining room because you don’t cook there.”

“Oh. ‘Breakfast-room-and-held-his-coffff-eeeee-cup-be-fore-his-face-‘” She took a big breath as if to let me know my sentences were too long-winded. “‘savvvvv-orrrrr-ing-‘ what’s that?”

“Savoring. It’s like enjoying.” That was obviously another word I had mis-used.

“‘Savoring-the- heeee-aaad-ee-‘”

“Heady. It means sort of like really good.”

“Why don’t you use the right words?” But she shrugged and went on. Already she had been at it longer than I had expected. “‘-Aaa-ro-ma-‘”

“Aroma. It means smell.”

“I knew that. ‘Aroma-and-wish-ing-his-mother-in-the Soooth?'”

“South. South of France. It’s a faraway place.”

“Oh. Couldn’t you write a book about Seattle?”

“Maybe someday. But this one is about England.”

“You said South of France.”

“Well, that’s just another place I mentioned in the book.” I figured she’d give up now. I mis-calculated.